


Mad And Magnificent

by whovianmuse



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), wholock - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-13 05:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whovianmuse/pseuds/whovianmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Sequel:</b> <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/512100">Logic And Lore</a></p><p> </p><p>  <i>The New Year countdown is a peculiar phenomena. In the distance, the crowd starts to chant, their voices rumbling over London like thunder as they count backward from sixty. And maybe the rush of it all is pulling Amelia in too, because she can’t quite explain why she does it, can’t justify the inherent need. Before she can come to her senses, she’s broken the barrier between the two of them and wrapped her arms around his neck, tangling her fingers into the smoke-scented curls of his hair, pulling him roughly by the collar of his coat and pressing her lips against his.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Mad And Magnificent

            It’s New Year’s Eve, with only twenty-seven minutes to midnight, and Amelia Pond is sitting in a pub in the heart of London, sipping a Peach Bellini and tapping her gold-painted fingernails against the glass in time to the music. Her friends, a traitorous bunch of bastards, have all gone off with their boyfriends or random strangers they’d only just met, leaving Amelia quite alone. She’s not sure why she decided to come in the first place. They are, after all, the very same girls that had teased and tortured her all throughout primary. Still, there’s a bright side to all of this. She _could_ be back home in Leadworth, sitting on the couch in a ruffled dress, sipping cheap champagne that tastes like soap, and trying to ignore Aunt Sharon’s relentless complaints about how she didn’t snag a date for the neighbor’s posh party.

            Of course, that was back before she’d had a boyfriend. Speaking of which, she could’ve brought Rory along with her tonight, but seeing as they’d broken up two days prior, that probably wouldn’t have been the best idea. Rory isn’t very good at adjusting to the whole “just mates” scenario, and Amelia isn't in the mood for guilt and snide remarks. Desperate for a distraction from the sad turn her life has taken, her eyes rove the length of the tiny pub for potential company, but she comes up empty. Unless she’d like to spend her evening with Weepy Drunk Girl or Creepy Bartender Guy, the odds are looking fairly slim.

            With a heavy sigh, she slides off the bar stool, slips the bartender a fiver and rushes out the door before he can ask for her phone number. It’s bloody freezing outside, but Amelia doesn’t care. She breathes in the scent of city lights and crowded sidewalks, of fancy flat parties and karaoke pubs, of couples trudging about in the snow with bottles of _proper_ champagne and the promise of a romantic evening, of vodka and rum and marijuana and cigarette smoke, until her lungs can’t take in anymore. It’s terrifying and exhilarating and absolutely brilliant. It’s nothing at all like her dismal little town, and her hands are shaking so badly that if she doesn’t have a cigarette within the next five minutes, she’s going to scream.

            Almost as if it’s on cue, she catches a hint of the intoxicating aroma, the vice she’d promised Rory she’d give up. But Rory isn’t here, and as far as she’s concerned, a cigarette is exactly the fix she needs right now. She spots him out of the corner of her eye, lurking about underneath a flickering lamppost, one leg curled up against his thigh, the sole of his black boot scraping down the brick wall of the building behind him. He’s dressed like he was born into the wrong era, his black overcoat wrapped tightly around his torso, a navy blue scarf wreathed around his neck.

            His head is tilted down, shrouded in a cloud of smoke that licks the wild, black curls of his hair as it disappears into the sky. Amelia approaches him cautiously, ignoring the nagging feeling in her chest that tells her this is probably a very bad idea. He pretends not to notice her, even when she’s standing mere inches from him, but she knows he’s watching. He lifts his eyelashes every so slightly, his pale green eyes observing her with a mingled expression of curiosity and mild irritation. She flashes him a smile, curving her lips into the perfect pout.

            “Mind if I…?” Amelia asks, pointing to the spiral of smoke circling above his head. He purses his lips, surveying her as he takes another long drag, and then slips his hand into the inside pocket of his coat. He offers Amelia the very last of his pack, eyebrows arched in suspicion and genuine surprise when she doesn’t immediately leave his company. No one ever talks to him if they haven’t a reason to. Most people avoid him altogether. Except for Mycroft, who, as of late, insists on coming round his flat every Sunday for cake and tea. Well, cake.

            “I’m sorry, but could you also...I don’t have a lighter on me. I’ve sort of had to give up the habit,” she admits, a soft blush creeping across the bridge of her nose. He rolls his eyes and rummages about in his coat pockets until he finds the lighter he’d nicked from John. Amelia doesn’t wait for him to give it to her, abandoning etiquette as she slips the cigarette in between her lips and invades his personal space. A bit perplexed by the sudden closeness of a complete stranger, he obeys without question, lighting the tip of her cigarette for her.

            Amelia smiles and takes the empty spot right next to him, accidentally brushing up against his shoulder as she shifts into a more comfortable position. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back, resting against the rough, brick wall and blowing smoke rings into the swirling snow above her head, while he pretends that she’s a figment of Mrs. Hudson’s Chardonnay. Secretly, he drinks her in, deducing every detail, from the feral flames of her ginger hair to the pastel pink of her freckled skin, clad in a reckless combination of a fur-lined leather jacket and a corduroy skirt.

            Aside from an obvious lack of common sense, there’s really nothing to translate. There’s just one, constant emotion written across her every expression, even and especially when she tries to mask it with a smile: pure, all-consuming sadness. The tragic expression of someone whose life doesn’t make any sense. It’s as if something’s missing, like she’s waiting for someone that will likely never come, for something that will probably never happen. It’s obvious she’s been left behind, and he honestly can’t comprehend _why_. Curiosity bites the tip of his tongue and for once, he indulges.

            “Why exactly are you—“ he begins, queuing up playful condescension.

            “Because I _felt_ like it,” she says, cutting across what would have been a well-rehearsed string of insults. She chances a look over at him as she flicks her ashes into the snow.

            “And why are _you_ out here all on your own?”

            “Because I can’t stand the company of most people,” he retorts, a hint of venom lacing his words as he glowers down at the pavement. Amelia considers this for a moment.

            “Am I bothering you?”

            He doesn’t immediately respond, decides it’s far more entertaining to make her nervous, to make her think that he’s actually mulling over it.

            “Not really,” he finally says, his sinful set of cheekbones curving upward with a smirk.

            “Good. Cause I wasn’t planning on leaving anyway.”

            “As you wish.”

            Time ticks past as the two of them stand there in complete silence, broken only by the occasional rush of cars and the soft whir of wind as it waltzes through the snow. Brimming with irrational intrigue, he turns to get a proper look at her, altogether forgetting his façade, and asks, “What’s your name?”

            “Amelia Pond,” she says automatically. It doesn’t even occur to her to use a false name.

            “Amelia Pond,” he murmurs, turning it over on his tongue, tasting it. “No. _Wrong_.

I think I’ll call you Amy instead. Sounds better. Less like a name from a faerie tale.”

            Amelia nearly chokes on her cigarette, covering up a violent spasm of coughing and sputtering with an unconvincing exasperated sigh.

            “Funny,” she manages, “you sound just like someone I…never mind.”

            A smile flickers across her face as she replays the memory, quickly burying it with a scowl. She takes another long drag, releases the smoke, and asks, “What’s yours?”

            “Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

            “And you talk about _my_ name,” she laughs. He simply stares at her, unburdened by her rudeness and unwillingly intrigued. He waits for her to speak, reciting possible opening lines for conversation in his mind, dismissing each one as it unravels into an inevitably awkward, mind-numbingly dull end. He isn’t very good at this. Idle conversation about nothing in particular. Pretending that he’s a normal human being. And to be perfectly honest, he isn't certain why he’s even trying to be. The sound of her voice shakes him out of his reverie, and he realizes that he’s been standing like a statue for the past five minutes, eyes fixed on a vague point in the distance, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. He probably looks like an idiot. Not that it matters.

            “It’s a little sad, isn’t it? New Year’s Eve,” she says, a heartbreaking smile twisting at the corners of her lips like she’d surrendered to the concept of being alone well before this evening. “Two minutes to the new year and we’re left all on our own. Two complete strangers. Sober and lonely, without a single soul to kiss at midnight.”

            “I can’t imagine why you’d be so worried over it. Such a pointless tradition,” he says. “Besides which, I much prefer it here.”

            “You’re not bad company, either,” she says, chuckling softly.

             The New Year countdown is a peculiar phenomena. Everyone stops simultaneously to check their phones, queuing up caps-locked mass text messages and dialing in a collection of correlating numbers. In the distance, the crowd starts to chant, their voices rumbling over London like thunder as they count backward from sixty. And maybe the rush of it all is pulling Amelia in too, because she can’t quite explain why she does it, can’t justify the inherent need. Before she can come to her senses, she’s broken the barrier between the two of them and wrapped her arms around his neck, tangling her fingers into the smoke-scented curls of his hair, pulling him roughly by the collar of his coat and pressing her lips against his.

            At first, Sherlock doesn’t react. He simply stands there, bemused and completely useless, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat. His mind explodes into a flurry of panic, fighting contradictory urges, the logical side of his brain shouting nonsense at the other. And then his senses take over, relieved to have the reigns for once, leaving his mind to fend for itself. All he can think about is mad, magnificent Amelia Pond, the taste of her soft, pink lips against his own, the scent of her perfume paired with cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes, the prickling chill that races up his spine as she weaves her fingers into his hair.

            By the time he’s figured out what he wants, hands twitching out of his pockets, arms flailing as they gently snake around her waist and draw her in even closer, trying to coax his lips into a decent pout, it’s much too late. She releases him slowly, torturously, the ghost of her kiss lingering on his lips as she slides her hands out of his disheveled hair. Amelia withdraws, admiring the mess she’s made with a wicked grin. Little does she know she’s done irreparable damage that will haunt him well after she’s gone.

            “Happy New Year, Sherlock Holmes,” she whispers, before turning on her heel and doubling back the way she’d come. Sherlock, still utterly bewildered, watches as Amelia disappears into the night, cloaked by fireworks and euphoric tourists, the iridescent diamonds of freshly-fallen snow dancing in the flames of her hair. A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he throws down his cigarette and crushes it with the tip of his boot, momentarily toying with the idea of following her into the crowd and finishing that kiss. For the first time in months, Sherlock Holmes isn’t bored in the slightest.


End file.
